


Labels: Who Needs Them, Right?

by shungokusatsu



Category: American Assassin (2017), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon - Typical Violence for AA, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, I cannot stress this enough, M/M, Mild Gore, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Plot if you squint?, Shameless Smut, Stiles' Real Name Is A Thing, so much porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shungokusatsu/pseuds/shungokusatsu
Summary: They’d never made it official, and barely talked about it, but a couple of years of doing this pretty much means they’re dating.





	Labels: Who Needs Them, Right?

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. Here's my contribution to this ship. The characters are not mine; they are the property of their respective owners. There's a ludicrous amount of sex in this. If that's not your thing, please don't read. And as always, practice safe sex!
> 
> This work is self-beta'd, so if I missed anything, my apologies!

Shit went to Hell faster than Stiles could say “shit.” There was a mixup about the time for the rendezvous with his CIA contact, who was supposed to debrief his team on the situation — a domestic terror group with ties to a terrorist cell in Libya had posted a manifesto on the dark web, threatening to attack houses of worship in Stamford. The FBI had been notified of one such location in Harbor Point, and Stiles and his team were sent to stake out a church on Washington Street. They were told that the terrorist group had set up shop in the empty building across from the aforementioned church, fronting as a real estate firm so they could keep tabs on the location and presumably, coordinate an attack.

The only thing Stiles knew about their contact was that they were code named “Iron Man.” _Oh, really?_ Stiles scoffed to himself, _Is his name Tony Stark?_ It was understandable that the operative’s name was withheld to protect his identity should their cover be compromised, but did this guy really have to pick a superhero code name? Did this guy really think he was _that_ cool? Stiles snorted so loud that his two colleagues in the van gave him a weird look.

It didn’t take long for them to hear gunshots going off inside the building.

“What the fuck is happening?!”

Stiles and his fellow agents rushed out of the van, carefully making their way to the back of the two-story colonial. The back door had been lockpicked and left open, and Stiles spotted a body lying face down on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. Not good. Who was here? Was it the contact they were supposed to meet an hour ago? Gun drawn, Stiles made his way further into the building. The wall across him was riddled with bullet holes. He noted that the one behind him only had one. Whoever killed this guy was definitely a marksman. He found two more bodies in the living room-turned-office, Judging by the similar exit wounds in the backs of their heads, whoever was taking them out was a professional. Making his way into the adjoining room, Stiles froze. He could already see the gun pointed at his face from six feet away. There was no way he was going to turn fast enough to counterfire.

“Stilinski. We meet again.” Oh, fuck. Stiles knew that voice from anywhere.

“That’s _Special Agent Stilinski_.” Prick.

_Three years ago. The Farm._

Fresh out of Quantico and green as a cucumber, Stiles’ first encounter with Mitch Rapp was while touring The Farm, having been sent to investigate the death of a case officer who was rumored to have been operating on American soil. He walked in on a training session where Mitch was sparring with a new recruit. Stiles watched him violently take the man down — Mitch effortlessly flipped him onto his back and transitioned into a Juji-Gatame armbar like flowing water. Impressive, considering the guy must have been at least 300 pounds and stood head and shoulders above him. Why would the CIA even recruit a guy that big? Wasn’t the point of being a spy to blend in? This guy stuck out like a sore thumb. Stiles winced and cursed, diverting the small gathering’s attention to him.

Hurley noticed him and immediately asked, “Who the fuck is this shit-eater, and why does he look like you, Rapp?”

“I...don’t know, sir,” Mitch answered, relinquishing his hold on the recruit who was tapping against his thigh. He got to his feet and was just as confused; Stiles easily could have passed for his younger brother. His smaller, _cute_ younger brother.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Special Agent Stilinski, sir,” he answered, his arms refusing to stay at his side and nearly taking out his own eye saluting Hurley. It drew a few snickers from the recruits, and Mitch silenced them all with a look. The grizzled veteran saw the badge hanging on his lanyard and narrowed his eyes. He walked up to Stiles to give it a brief inspection, picking it up and looking at Stiles before turning back to the ID.

“Mike-zie — how the fuck do you say your name?” Hurley let the lanyard drop to Stiles’ chest and leveled him with a look.

“Just call me Stiles, sir. Everyone does.”

“They’ll make just about anyone a fed nowadays, won’t they?” Stiles blushed and looked down, his pockets suddenly a thousand times more interesting as he fidgeted in place. Hurley scoffed as he turned and walked back to the class, pointing at Stiles with his thumb and asking Mitch, “You sure this ain’t Steve?”

“No, he’s in New York.”

“Christ, just what the world needed...a doppelgänger of you,” Hurley muttered.

“Mitch Rapp,” he said, approaching to introduce himself when Hurley took over the lesson for him. He held out a hand for Stiles to shake, but then decided to forego that. Curiosity about the name on the ID took precedence and he picked it up to see why Hurley had trouble trying to pronounce it.

“Meek-lize — “

“It’s _Stiles_.” He was a bit flustered now, but Mitch pressed. The guy seemed to take a liking to Stiles’ current state.

“How did you get Stiles from _that_?” Mitch looked amused.

“I picked it.” Stiles was just over it. Mitch looked like a taller, slightly more muscular version of himself. Who wore tight shirts that clung to every contour of his torso. Who could grow facial hair. Coupled with his longer hair, it made him look sexy as f—

“Welcome to The Farm, Special Agent Stilinski. Let me show you around.”

_Two years ago. Chechnya._

Stiles found out the hard way that he’s no good at losing a tail. Five minutes into landing, he’s already got Russian operatives on his heels. At this rate, gathering information about Russian hacking that led to a huge security breach in the NSA was going to prove difficult to investigate. Stiles didn’t know how he was going to get to his asset without blowing both their covers; he’s already in a panic circling Grozny trying to shake the guys following him. He didn’t want to make a scene and start running, and he’s already looked over his shoulder twice in the span of thirty seconds.

Just as he rounds a corner, somebody bumps into him, _hard_. Stiles doesn’t fall, because he’s not 147 pounds of sarcasm and bones anymore. He’s twenty pounds heavier now with the muscle he put on training in Quantico. But he does drop his bag. Fuck. The man apologizes to him in Russian and quickly walks away before Stiles can see his face. He picks up his bag, hoping the momentary distraction didn’t give the guys tailing him enough time to catch up.

It’s then he notices he’s no longer being followed. What the hell happened? Stiles decided it was better to take advantage of his turn of luck rather than ponder the fate of his pursuers. He finds his asset waiting for him in the parking lot. They get into the car and head to the safehouse when Stiles feels his phone vibrate. Fishing it out of his pocket, Stiles laughs under his breath when he sees the text message from an unknown number.

**You’re welcome. - M**

So Stiles texted back.

**Coffee?**

_Present day. Six hours later. Stiles’ hotel room._

“We really need to stop meeting like this,” Mitch said. Stiles hasn’t taken his eyes off of him since he walked in, and he knows Mitch can feel the weight of his stare on his back — a specific part of him, in fact — as the taller man unlatches his holster and slips out of it.

“You always say that. Then you fuck me six million ways to Sunday and suddenly it’s, _‘No, don’t go,’_ and, _‘Stay another day with me,’_ or—”

“Shut up,” Mitch cuts him off. Stiles is right, of course. They’d never made it official, and barely talked about it, but a couple of years of doing this pretty much means they’re dating. Stiles hasn’t so much as _looked_ at anyone else since he and Mitch started fooling around, and he knows for a fact that Mitch hasn’t either. Their lives make it hard for them to spend too much time with each other before they’re being whisked away by work, and going weeks to months at a time before seeing each other again isn’t unusual. Despite that, these are the times Stiles savored. Given how enthusiastic Mitch was every time they hooked up, Stiles was happy someone finally wanted him like this.

“So, when were you gonna tell me?” Stiles shrugs off his blue jacket, draping it over the chair separating him from Mitch. Three large, yellow letters emblazoned across the back make the organization Stiles works for no mystery, which Mitch has teased him for on more than a handful of occasions. He sets his own sidearm on the table and removes his ballistic vest before Mitch rounds the chair to crowd him. Stiles doesn’t mind; he absolutely loves when Mitch invades his personal space. What follows is one of the many, many things Mitch excels at, but he hasn’t made a list of them. Nope, he hasn’t. They’ve done this enough times that he’s become well versed in Mitch’s mannerisms and habits, that’s all.

“Tell you what?” Stiles likes his hair long like this. It’s about the same length from the time they first met and it does things to Stiles, mostly for the plain fact that it makes Mitch handsome as fuck. And also, there’s plenty to pull on, but that’s neither here nor there. Mitch’s beard is just growing in; too long to be considered stubble, but the perfect length that Stiles loves feeling it graze his shoulder when Mitch is big spoon. He’s tall enough for Stiles to comfortably rest his head in the crook of his neck when they’re facing each other, and sometimes he likes being held by the taller man like that — swaying to some song neither of them can hear, but know the tune of intimately. It’s not _La Vie en Rose_ , stop.

“Should I start calling you Tony Stark?” Mitch cocks his head and gives him a ‘come again?’ look, to which Stiles snorts. It takes a moment to register because it’s been a long time since Mitch has kept up with anything related to pop culture and he quietly laughs, shaking his head.

“No, that’s not why they call me that,” he explains, “It’s because I won the Iron Man competition last year.” Stiles slides his arms around Mitch’s waist. It’s identical to his, but Mitch is a bit meatier; more muscular. He’s no bodybuilder, by any means, but there’s enough muscle on Mitch for the difference between their physiques to be noticeable. Stiles likes that, too. A lot.

“Oh.” Stiles hams it up with a full-on pout. Mitch would never admit this aloud to him, but it’s super effective. “I don’t know whether or not I should be disappointed I can’t call you that, then.” The taller man kisses the fake pout away from his lips as he wraps his own arms around Stiles’ shoulders. It’s a small, sweet kiss, but it does the trick every time. Stiles immediately feels any tension he had in his shoulders disappear. There’s a notable slackness to them now that makes Mitch smile.

“We’re too far from the bed.” It’s not a whine, but Mitch would tease him if Stiles hadn’t pulled the man down for another kiss. It’s not as chaste this time; there’s definitely tongue involved, and their breaths are flaring over each other’s cheeks. Mitch might have initiated them into fooling around, but Stiles made up for it by starting things more than half the time since. It’s a feeling they both share about one another: they can’t get enough. Stiles based their arrangement on a conversation at the end _Speed_. Mitch was too amused to get a word out edgewise, so he settled for pulling the younger man into a kiss before claiming he was Keanu. He definitely hasn’t gotten sick of the way Stiles melts against him whenever their lips come together, and he’s pretty sure he never will.

Stiles moves to rectify their problem, tipping his chin upwards to kiss Mitch and gently pushing him. The taller man back pedals toward the bed as Stiles pulls the hem of his shirt, pushing it up until Mitch raises his arms so he can slide it off. He appreciates the way the material hugs Mitch’s torso like another layer of skin, but Stiles likes the way his lover looks without it much more. Their complexion is similar; both in serious need of a tan, but that doesn’t hinder them from appreciating what their eyes feast upon once they’re naked.

Breaking the kiss, Stiles presses their foreheads together as he shifts his gaze downward. The tactical pants Mitch wears is a sinful fit; it’s impossible for Stiles not to ogle the man’s backside whenever it’s presented — mostly when he thinks Mitch doesn’t notice. Stiles has a healthy appreciation for shapely butts, and Mitch’s is as close to perfect as it gets. Mitch argues his is more so, but Stiles maintains it isn’t, even if he believes him. Because if anything Stiles learned at the FBI stuck, it was that he needed to be more confident in himself. He’s also not above calling it “Mitch’s favorite _asset_ ,” and the eye roll it garners him is worth it every time.

They press into each other, and Stiles groans into his lover’s lips when he feels Mitch’s erection dig into his hip. Mitch is already working his way down Stiles’ button-up, and he complies with a moan as the taller man kisses his way past Stiles’ lips to suckle at his neck. The shirt falls to the floor, leaving Stiles in a white tee that fits him more snugly than it would have when he was still living in Beacon Hills. It’s also a size smaller; Stiles finally gave in to the practicality of wearing better fitting clothing as he entered adulthood.

Mitch shows his appreciation by lifting his shirt, Stiles the one raising his arms this time as the taller man peppers his chest and collar bone with teasing kisses. He groans as the shirt is lifted only halfway past his face. His nose and lips are still exposed, but the shirt effectively acts as his blindfold as Mitch hangs onto the hem and traps his arms behind his neck. Mitch smiles at the sight of him, his frustration at not being able to see his lover plainly written across his pouty, kiss-swollen lips. Mitch rewards him with a peck, and Stiles’ frustration grows as he tries to follow the taller man’s lips when he pulls away, held in place by the grip Mitch has on his shirt. Mitch plays connect the dots with the moles on Stiles’ face, and he finally relents, chuckling softly when he can feel the man smile against his cheek.

Stiles makes quick work of removing the shirt when Mitch finally lets go, watches as his lover kneels. The grey waistband of his black boxer briefs is showing now that Mitch’s fingers have looped into his jeans. Stiles can feel his skin buzzing everywhere Mitch’s lips touch him, and it only leaves him anxiously anticipating where they end up next, even as Mitch takes a lungful of him through his jeans. He nips at the skin on Stiles’ lower abdomen, drawing out another groan as he takes his time unbuttoning those jeans and pulling down the zipper. Stiles’ impatience grows at the click of teeth unclasping; Mitch knows how eager he is to get to the main event. But he also knows how much Stiles appreciates it afterward that he took his time and worked Stiles into a frenzy, until he’s begging to be filled and his voice is carrying that _just fucking wreck me_ tone. That’s when Mitch decides to finally give him what he wants.

They’re not there yet. Far from it.

Stiles cards his long fingers through Mitch’s hair. He loves that Mitch only grows it out because the man can’t be bothered to cut it — unless he’s on assignment and needs to create an identity for himself. Otherwise he just lets it grow until he gets annoyed with it. Stiles especially loves having handfuls of it while he’s getting railed. It makes Mitch fuck him that much harder, and the thought of being on the receiving end of that at some point this evening makes his underwear feel downright uncomfortable. He hears the pleased sound Mitch makes, obviously proud of himself for the effect he’s clearly having on Stiles.

Head thrown back, Stiles can’t bear to look as he concentrates on the feeling of Mitch’s lips raining kisses along skin becoming exposed as his jeans and briefs are pushed down. He’s not embarrassed over how hard he already is; his cock slaps against his abdomen the moment it’s freed, the tip wet with precum and darker than the rest of the shaft. He’s by no means monstrous, but respectably above average. Stiles huffs out a breath as Mitch holds him by the base, doesn’t stroke him, just keeps him there as he laves all of Stiles’ groin with kisses. The mere touch has him throbbing in Mitch’s grasp, and Stiles has to remind his knees to not even _think_ about buckling. Not when Mitch hasn’t even put him in his mouth yet.

His mouth falls slack when it finally happens. It should be _illegal_ how good Mitch’s mouth feels. Stiles chokes out a laugh mid-moan because Mitch has said the same thing about his ass. It’s one of his few physical features Stiles didn’t dislike — it was always nice and round, but training in Quantico and building up some muscle made it firmer, more toned. The sound he makes causes the man to stop, but before Mitch can pull away, Stiles grabs the back of his head to keep him in place. Mitch takes that as his sign to keep going, so he does. They’ve done this enough times that he’s able to take Stiles to the root. He loves hearing the filth pour from Stiles’ mouth when he does this, and tonight is no different. Stiles has the dirtiest mouth Mitch has ever heard, not that he’s had enough lovers to make a definitive comparison. It’s still a distinction Stiles is proud of, because why not? A win is a win; he’ll take it.

Mitch starts bobbing his head, cheeks pulling in tightly every time he withdraws, making Stiles feel like the man is attempting to hoover his brain through his cock. He’s got both hands on the sides of Mitch’s head, fingers tightening in wavy, dark hair. It’s a little rough, but they’ve both discovered sadistic and masochistic sides of each other that makes them such a perfect match. Mitch only sucks harder, prompting Stiles to still his head so he can fuck it. Mitch permits him, lets Stiles thrust into his mouth, making sure the strong suction entices him into pushing back in, creating those dirty sounds that both of them immensely enjoyed.

Stiles is doing his best to make Mitch gag, fucking into his mouth when he feels a lubed finger brush against his hole. He stopped wondering long ago how Mitch was able to do things he couldn’t detect. Like where the lube came from. Or how Stiles didn’t hear it opening. Spreading his feet apart to grant him access, Stiles doesn’t stop fucking into his lover’s mouth. Mitch slurps away, knowing how much they both get off on those sounds. He keeps his finger in place, letting Stiles do the work with his hips. He eventually loosens up enough that it pushes in, and he gasps at the intrusion. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to; he’s gotten used to being penetrated by now, and besides, Mitch has something _much_ larger than his finger that Stiles has gotten used to having inside him, too. It doesn’t stop Mitch’s breath from hitching; he’s told Stiles time and again he can’t get over how _fucking tight_ he feels around him — Mitch’s words, not his.

It’s doing a number on Stiles how good this feels, the dual sensations of fucking a warm, wet mouth and something pushing into his ass. Mitch’s finger only goes deeper every time Stiles pushes back, and he’s ridden Mitch enough times to know how to make sure that finger pushes into his prostate every time he withdraws from his lover’s mouth. He almost feels selfish, knowing Mitch still has his pants on while he’s being worked over like this. The second finger that enters him makes him forget, and Stiles pumps his hips faster as he vigorously chases each sensation. He can feel himself taking both fingers to the knuckles, easing up on Mitch and letting go of his hair. Stiles relishes in the feeling of the man’s fingers inside him. Mitch growls around his cock when he feels Stiles squeeze him with his muscles, knowing soon enough he’ll be feeling that around his cock.

When a third finger is added, Stiles bites his lip so hard he nearly breaks skin. He’s ready to be fucked, but Mitch has other plans, releasing his cock with a pop as he _leers_ at Stiles, watching him fall apart while he fucks him with his fingers. Stiles’ cock bobs between his legs, jumping every time Mitch’s fingertips prod his g-spot. Mitch can see the precum gathering at the tip, rushing in to catch it as it falls, not letting it go to waste on the floor and scooping it up with his tongue. It’s a sight that almost does Stiles in: Mitch is looking right at him, eyes that are normally on the lighter spectrum of milk chocolate now a darker, hickory shade. The lube coating Mitch’s fingers is making the sounds of them pushing in and out of Stiles evident, especially given how close his lover is. Stiles knows the man would have bent him over and rimmed him until he came if he didn’t hate the taste of lube. He doesn’t blame him for that.

“ _Fuck me_.” It’s a simple request; one Stiles knows at this point is beyond Mitch’s ability to disobey. His legs are becoming unsteady, and he knows he could fall over at any second. He steps out of his shoes and jeans, gasping at the feeling of Mitch’s fingers abruptly leaving him before he’s unceremoniously pushed toward the bed. The wet slurp his hole makes upon releasing those fingers doesn’t go unnoticed, his cock jumping and audibly smacking his abdomen. Stiles doesn’t have to see what’s happening behind him; he loves hearing the telltale sounds of Mitch’s shaky hands rushing to undo his belt, of the zipper sliding down before those pants are pushed halfway past his thighs. He loves that Mitch brings himself to this point of desperation, that his need for Stiles is so great that he doesn’t have the patience to undress himself completely. It’s a feeling he knows all too well.

There are towels beside Stiles on the bed; he’d had the foresight to ask for them upon checking in. Stiles loves how messy sex with Mitch can become when they’re in the privacy of each other’s apartments, but he doesn’t like giving hotel staff the impression that they’re mindless sex fiends who leave horror stories for them to tell each other when they’re done cleaning. He lays a towel out under him before he takes his own cock into his hand and listens. He can hear Mitch’s hand sliding wetly along his cock as he lubes the head and shaft. Stiles is pretty sure he’s got a kink involving sounds because it makes his cock painfully hard, knowing that sound is of Mitch prepping himself for penetration. He feels a slight movement under him and figures his lover is wiping off whatever lube he had left on his hand on the towel.

Stiles looks back this time. He cranes his neck and feasts his eyes upon Mitch, from that small patch of hair in the valley between his pecs, to the sculpt of abdominal muscles that are visible even through skin that could accurately be described as alabaster. _Fuck_. The man gets hotter every time Stiles looks at him. The hair trailing all the way down from Mitch’s navel to his groin is a picture Stiles has etched into memory; it’s one of his favorite details about Mitch’s body. He quietly laughs to himself when he sees he’s right about Mitch’s pants barely going past his knees. It speaks for the need his lover has for him, and Stiles loves it.

The moment Mitch presses into him, Stiles forgets what’s so amusing. They’ve spent entire weeks in bed getting to know each other’s bodies, and no matter how many times they’ve done this, Stiles will swear till the day he dies that sex with Mitch always feels like the first time. The burn of the stretch feels new and a touch familiar, but just this side of painful that Stiles can’t help hissing as the rings of muscle are forced to accommodate the head pushing in. “ _Fuck_.” He can’t tell whether that came out of his or Mitch’s mouth; it’s possible they both said it at the same time. Stiles squeezes around him, stopping Mitch in his tracks. It’s too tight for him to proceed, and he knows this is a thing Stiles does to make it easier for them both. Stiles gives his own cock a few strokes, precum dripping onto the towel when his muscles naturally relinquish their grip on Mitch. He can feel his lover’s eyes boring into the back of his head, knowing he was waiting for the signal. So Stiles nods.

The guttural moan Mitch lets out as Stiles’s hole practically swallows him to the balls is downright _sinful_. It’s an impressive feat; Mitch is definitely thicker, just a few centimeters under problematic, and lengthwise there’s no question he’s got Stiles beat. Stiles may or may not have measured him one night while Mitch was asleep — which is to say that Mitch let him because he got tired of Stiles asking him if he could. Mitch doesn’t have it in him to break it to Stiles that he would be expelled on the first day of Ninja School, because sneaking around is something he’s _disastrously_ bad at. He just knows it would break Stiles’ heart irreparably, and that’s not something he wants on his conscience. So he let Stiles think he was asleep as he pulled the ruler out of his nightstand.

Stiles knew it was a ruse the moment he squawked as he held the ruler to Mitch’s dick and the guy didn’t even flinch or pull out the gun out under his pillow and threaten him. Nevertheless, Stiles is appreciative.

Now Mitch has his hands on Stiles’ hips. He can feel them digging in, can feel Mitch _throbbing_ inside him, and Stiles has to bite his lip from begging Mitch to fucking _pound_ him. Bruises in the shape of fingertips start forming where Mitch is gripping him, but Stiles would never complain about that; he wears any marks his lover leaves on him like a badge of honor. Mitch is taking his time, and Stiles doesn’t rush him. He doesn’t have to now that he’s got Mitch inside him. _So deep inside him_. It makes his spine tingle just thinking about that, and Stiles revels in feeling so completely and utterly filled. Mitch is flush against his ass, groin pressed firmly against him, and it’s the best feeling in the world, if he’s being honest.

It’s not long before Mitch starts moving. He knows by now how long it takes before Stiles starts keening. He starts off slow; Stiles knows he must be watching himself as he pushes in and out. He’s told Stiles how much he loves it; how much the sight of Stiles’ ass devouring his cock turns him on. Stiles knows it’s only the calm before the storm. Mitch needs his fill of watching how their bodies work against one another, to see how wide Stiles is stretched open so he can accept the thick length that’s being fed to his body. He enjoys this, too; loves it when they wake up too lazy to get out of bed and fuck slowly all morning. taking their time, not rushing to orgasm. Just enjoying the feel of their bodies against each other and how perfectly they fit together.

And then it begins. A loud slap of skin echoes throughout the hotel room. Skin on skin. A sharp thrust that sent Mitch’s cock careening into his prostate. Stiles is already seeing stars, but he gets no reprieve. Another hard thrust has him dizzy with lust, biting his lip and whimpering because he doesn’t want to be too loud. It’s always been a futile endeavor. Mitch loves hearing Stiles lose it. Loves fucking him into submission until he’s a delirious, drooling mess. Stiles once joked and asked Mitch if he had a “fuck me silly” sign taped to his back, and Mitch merely smirked at him. There must be something beautiful about the way he comes undone during sex that Mitch can’t get enough of, Stiles figures.

The hands on his hips grip him tighter, pulling him toward Mitch as the man thrusts into him. Their bodies meet in resounding slaps, and Stiles’ eyes roll up to the back of his head because he loves the feeling of Mitch’s balls smacking against his taint. He grabs the comforter by the handfuls, white knuckling it as Mitch fucks him hard. Stiles couldn’t be happier. His head snaps back with each thrust from his lover, strong enough to give him whiplash, but he would never ask Mitch to take it easy on him. They both like it rough. His moans fill the room, joined by the animalistic noises coming from Mitch. They’re a mix of growls, grunts, and snarls. Stiles didn’t think he could find something like that sexy until he heard them.

A hard slap to his ass brings Stiles back, makes him keenly aware of how deep and hard Mitch is plowing into him. The room feels several degrees warmer, sweat now dripping from him as he starts to move against his lover, driving his ass back as Mitch pumps into him. They don’t talk apart from the occasional _fuck_ s coming out of their lips. The sex is mind-blowing enough that they don’t need to add pornographic dialogue to it, but there definitely are occasions Stiles can’t help himself. The beating his prostate takes from Mitch is wreaking havoc upon him. Pleasure hits him like waves violently crashing against a cliff side, with just a touch of pain from the harshness of Mitch’s thrusts that has Stiles teetering dangerously over the edge.

Stiles listens closely, concentrates hard on singling out that sound that drives him crazy. It’s subtle and easy to miss, but Mitch pointed it out to him once and Stiles couldn’t ignore it after that — the sound of his hole feasting upon his lover’s cock. It’s not as distinct as the sound Mitch’s hand makes as he spreads lube over his cock, but it’s just as lewd, just as obscene. It sounds like his hole is hungrily sucking on Mitch’s cock, like it fucking _needs_ it like Stiles needs air. And he’s made a point of listening for it every time they’ve fucked since. Stiles pinpoints it easily enough; he’s an expert at it by now. It made his cock ache with how much harder he became, and Mitch growled because he felt Stiles squeeze his cock like he was trying to crush him.

Mitch responds in kind. He grunts with each thrust, making sure Stiles can feel him press flush against his ass every time he drives his cock balls deep. Stiles can’t help yelping as the breath is punched out of his lungs by each powerful thrust, making him lightheaded from the pitiful amount of oxygen he sucks in because Mitch fucks it right back out of him. But damn, does he love the feeling of having the man all the way inside him. Mitch being balls deep carried so much more weight; Stiles can’t get over how full he feels, how incredibly and absolutely _stuffed_ he is by Mitch. If that makes him a size queen, Stiles doesn’t really care because Mitch doesn’t coast on the size of his cock alone, the man could use it as well as he could fire a gun or throw a punch.

“ _So_ much dick.” Mitch returns the smirk Stiles gives when he turns, and then slaps his ass hard. The man seems determined to give him a matching set of hand prints on his ass, and Stiles isn’t going to object. Mitch was never one to reply with words; his actions spoke enough for him. Stiles doesn't mind so much. His mouth is filthy enough for the both of them, and while the porn dialogue was usually unsolicited, Mitch didn’t dislike it, either. He also loves that he doesn’t have to ask for Mitch to slap his ass again. They know each other well enough at this point to know what the other is thinking in times like these. And Stiles knows Mitch loves the sight of bubbly flesh rippling every time the man struck it with his open hand.

The overload of stimulation is too much. His knees and elbows feel weak as Mitch pounds into him. Stiles can’t stop himself as he collapses onto the bed, groaning into the towel at the sound his hole makes abruptly spitting out Mitch’s cock. The audible pop makes his ears burn, and Stiles bites his lip as he lay prone, feeling ridiculously open and gaping. His cock is trapped between his stomach and the towel, and the friction feels good. He grinds into it, knowing how wanton he must look dry-humping it.

Mitch growls low behind him, more in reaction to what Stiles is doing than at him. He chuckles softly when he hears Mitch finally decided to push his pants down to his ankles. He’s more amused when Mitch relieves him of his socks, over the thought of his lover wanting him to be fully naked despite not having the patience to do the same himself. Stiles feels the mattress shift as Mitch climbs in after him. He crawls his way up the bed so his legs aren’t hanging over the edge, feeling that larger body hover above him, following until Mitch decides they’ve moved far enough and pins Stiles to the bed.

Stiles can hear Mitch’s breath in his ear, hot and hoarse against his sweaty skin. Mitch’s hair has matted against his face. The smell of sex hangs thick around them, and Stiles moans because Mitch’s cock is wedged between his ass cheeks, that thick vein on the underside slidiing back and forth against his hole as Mitch grinds into him. The teasing is making Stiles squirm exquisitely; Mitch knows exactly how to drive him crazy. His hole twitches, the rim puffy as it puckers outward, like it’s trying to suck Mitch back into his body. Stiles bunches the comforter in his fists, growing increasingly frustrated with the emptiness that’s making him tremble with need. Mitch is content to stay like this for a while, their sweaty bodies sticking together, his cock sliding against Stiles, who’s pushing back his ass, trying to urge Mitch to reenter him.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, the desperation in his voice as clear as a cloudless sky.

“Please what?” Mitch is right in his ear, his breath making Stiles shiver. He takes the shell between his teeth, making Stiles groan.

“ _Fuck me. **Please**_.” Stiles jockeys for leverage, tries to move so he can coax Mitch to push back into him. Mitch doesn’t budge.

“Mitch, I’m _fucking begging_ you.”

“I’m not deaf.” Stiles glares back at him. He’s smirking at Stiles, only moving his hips by a few inches, just enough to rub against his hole and push Stiles to the brink of madness. Sometimes he hates just how much power Mitch has over him. And fuck the smug son of a bitch for knowing how sexy Stiles finds him.

“I _need_ you inside me.”

“Then put me back inside you.” Mitch lifts his hips enough so Stiles can reach back and guide him. He loves how Mitch’s breath hitches at the feeling of his fingers wrapping around the thick base, bringing him to his entrance. The second he feels the head of Mitch’s cock against his hole, the man pushes back in. He moans low as Mitch growls into his ear, both savoring the feeling as Mitch slowly sinks inch by agonizing inch back into his body. The stretch makes Stiles push his ass back even though Mitch is fully sheathed. It’s his way of telling Mitch he’d keep him inside him forever, if he could. Stiles pushes his knees further apart, opening himself wider for Mitch, making sure he can feel the man’s balls against his own. Stiles is beyond the point of caring how needy he’s become to having Mitch inside him. Two months is more than enough time to wait to be filled like this again.

“ _Move_ ,” he rasps, reaching back and grabbing a handful of Mitch’s ass. Stiles can’t see it, but he can feel the smug look on Mitch’s face. He stays flush against Stiles’ body, back to chest, groin to ass, elbows framing Stiles’ sides. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ body, making sure as much of their skin is in contact as possible, moving his hips only a few inches. The shallow thrusts satisfy Stiles for the moment; there’s friction, just the right amount that he can feel his lover moving inside him, but maintaining the feeling of being stuffed that Stiles craves so much when he’s alone at night wishing Mitch was fucking his brains out. Their skin peels apart like Velcro, followed by the sound of skin slapping skin as Mitch’s groin smacks into his ass. Stiles loves every raunchy detail of sex with this man. 

Mitch picks up speed, keeping his thrusts shallow as Stiles’ moans fill the air. The pump of Mitch’s hips force his own to pitch forward, causing his cock to slide over the towel, creating a delightful sensation that brings Stiles closer to the edge. Mitch can sense it, judging from the way Stiles starts to jabber beneath him. He tries his best to hold out, focusing on the constant stimulation to his prostate as Mitch starts to piston into him. He’s pulling his hips farther now, withdrawing a lot more cock before the sound of his crotch slapping into Stiles’ ass reverberates from the walls of the hotel room. He’s pretty sure his ass cheeks are now a bright shade of pink from the constant contact. Mitch’s hands cover his own, their fingers interlocking as his lover pounds him. He edges closer to orgasm, only to be pulled back by Mitch changing the tempo of his thrusts. It happens so much that Sties loses track of time.

Stiles feels Mitch’s rhythm falter, a telltale sign that his lover has started to chase his orgasm.

“Yeah, fuck. _Cum in me_.” His vocal chords feel like he’d scratched them out with sandpaper. Mitch obeys, hips slamming into Stiles with ferocity until he’s biting onto Stiles’ shoulder. The flash of pain only adds to the orgasm as he feels Mitch come. Mitch trembles against him, hips violently crashing against his ass. The deluge of warmth is intense. Mitch _floods_ him as he comes inside Stiles, and he can literally feel his lover’s cock throb each time it shoots into him. It’s enough to push Stiles over the edge as well, and the strangled moan that leaves Mitch’s lips when his hole clenches around the man’s cock is purely mind-breaking. He feels Mitch’s come drip down his balls as he unloads onto the towel under him. Both of them are holding each other in a deathgrip, knuckles nearly white as paper as they ride out their orgasms.

Mitch plops down on top of him. His body is heavy, but Stiles is too blissed out to complain. He’s vividly aware that Mitch is still inside him. They’re sweaty, messy, and out of breath. And Stiles couldn’t be happier. His mind is effectively blown, beyond any ability at the moment to formulate words that resemble English. Every part of their skin touching feels like it’s sizzling, and all Stiles can do is lazily smile. Mitch’s grip on his hands finally softens, their breaths and heartbeats syncing together as they ride out their post-orgasmic high. The boneless feeling makes Stiles giddy, and he’s pretty sure he couldn’t move if he tried.

He’s too weak to protest when Mitch starts to move. The squelching sound his hole produces as his lover pulls out is borderline offensive, and he’s pretty sure his hole looks as wrecked as it feels. Stiles chortles when he hears Mitch finally shedding the rest of his clothes, forgetting that the guy still had on his pants and shoes. He giggles softly at the feeling of Mitch’s come oozing out of him, squeaking out a yelp when Mitch slaps his ass before taking a couple of the face towels to the bathroom to run hot water over them.

Stiles drifts between consciousness and sleep as he listens to the sound of water running. He sits there and waits, imagining what Mitch looked like wiping himself down with a wet towel. He’s sore as fuck, but Stiles wouldn’t have it any other way. Pretty soon it’ll become a dull throb that’ll help Stiles get to sleep like his own personal metronome. He’s treated to the sight of his lover walking back fully naked. Stiles bites his lip because damn, he gets to have that. It’s still hard to fathom for him sometimes because of how gorgeous he thinks Mitch is.

“There he issssss,” he sing-songs, for all intents and purposes sounding like he’s drunk. Mitch shakes his head with a smile as he makes his way back to Stiles, warm towel in hand. He’s rewarded an appreciative groan as he cleans Stiles up, taking care not to press too hard against Stiles’ hole before rolling him off of the towel to get to his front. He does his best to help Mitch remove the comforter from the bed, lifting his body so he can lie on the sheets underneath. He grins toothily, eyes heavily lidded, too tired to do much else than let his lover wipe him down. There’s so much come inside him that he knows he’s gonna leak all night, but Stiles doesn’t care. This will do until they wake up the next day and have a proper shower.

“Get in here,” he says, rolling onto his side so Mitch can spoon against him.

“You’re still messy,” Mitch retorts.

“And whose fault is that?” Stiles turns his torso enough to side eye Mitch. “Maybe I’ll stop letting you cum inside me from now on.” Mitch snorts and slides in behind him. Stiles lifts his head so he can rest his head on Mitch’s arm, reaching back for the other and draping it over himself.

“So why isn’t this a thing yet?” The question catches Mitch off guard. He doesn’t flinch, but his brows furrow. Stiles doesn’t turn to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Why aren’t you my boyfriend?” Stiles doesn’t mean for it to sound as needy as it does, because he’s scared he’s going to push Mitch away.

“What gave you the idea that I’m not?”

“...oh.” His eyes droop shut as Mitch scoots closer, making sure their bodies have as much contact as possible. Stiles grins to himself as he feels Mitch’s bearded chin settle on his shoulder. It’s honestly the feeling Stiles loves most — their naked bodies slotted together like two matching puzzle pieces.

He should probably stop overthinking things.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always great. If you liked it, please let me know! 😅


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